


Restraint

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes convinces Watson to take that trip to Mycroft's estate but is bored to tears. He finds a way to amuse himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restraint

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story for pharis. She said she wanted to read something like this, and her wish is apparently my command. So I wrote her this present, and then I asked her to beta for me. And she does it cause she's awesome. Thank you, my dear.

Being in the country never agreed with Holmes. As much as the constant noise of the city could rattle his brain, the quiet of Mycroft’s estate was infinitely worse. And there was absolutely nothing to do. By the third day of the visit, Holmes was stalking the hallways liked a caged tiger, earning himself stern looks from Mycroft, amused glances from Watson, and concerned frowns from Mrs. Watson. The lovely new bride.

Holmes should have known this holiday would be terrible. Holidays were always terrible. The fact that Holmes felt some compunction to at least attempt self-restraint in the presence of Watson’s wife only made it more difficult. Watson had agreed to the visit only after exacting a solemn promise from Holmes of model behavior for its duration. It simply would not to do to be anything less than scrupulously polite to Mrs. Dr. Watson. Therefore Holmes was civil. Exaggeratedly so. If Watson noticed the tacit sarcasm, he chose not to make any comment.

At breakfast on the fourth day, Mary complained of a sick headache. Watson suggested a day of bed rest, and she immediately agreed. Mycroft retreated to his study, and Watson went outside to walk around the grounds, in spite of the drizzle. Holmes knew they were trying to escape him, and the knowledge gave him satisfaction for a solid hour. Then he grew restless.

Thinking to find Watson and coax him into chess or billiards—even a pointless pastime was preferable to continued idleness—Holmes went out through the French doors in the library. He paused at the edge of the terrace. Damp weather sometimes made Watson’s old injuries ache, so he was unlikely to have gone far from the house. Holmes scanned the paths in the formal gardens, all of which were easily visible from where he stood, and Watson was not there. Holmes fixed on the stables. It would be dry inside, and if Watson sought solitude, he would feel safe from intrusion there. Although Mycroft maintained a couple of proper gentleman’s mounts, he hadn’t sat astride a horse in more than twenty-five years, a fact of which Watson was well aware.

Holmes walked over the wet grass to the stables, making his way around to the side of the building that faced the open fields. As soon as he turned the corner he could see Watson, one elbow leaning on the half-door of an empty stall, looking into the distance.

“You make a melancholy picture, Watson,” Holmes called out as he approached.

Watson looked startled, standing abruptly upright and fumbling with something out of Holmes’ view. Drawing closer, Holmes could see over the weathered wood of the door that Watson was struggling to disentangle his arm from some sort of riding tackle. When his hand was free, Watson hung the thing on an iron hook on the wall and gave Holmes a furtive look. Holmes had assumed that Watson had been absently handling the straps as he gazed out at the landscape and inadvertently gotten himself caught up, but Watson’s guilty manner aroused his interest. As Watson straightened his cuff, Holmes caught a glimpse of several red lines pressed into the skin near his wrist. Watson hadn’t been casually toying with the harness. It had been wrapped around his wrist. Tightly. Tightly enough to mark his flesh. Tightly enough to hurt.

_Fascinating._

Because they were alone, Holmes decided the oath of good behavior no longer applied. He pushed the stall door open and stepped inside. Pretending to study the equipment in question, Holmes could see out of the corner of his eye that Watson was edging away. “Stay a moment.”

Watson froze in his tracks.

“Indulge me, would you?” Holmes asked, reaching up to touch the contraption where Watson had left it hanging. “I’m curious as to what you found so engaging in this particular bit of tackle.”

Watson looked back over his shoulder but said nothing. Holmes waited until Watson turned to fully face him before speaking again.

“I don’t claim to be any kind of expert. I’m such a city creature, you know,” Holmes wrapped his fingers around the straps, not taking his eyes off Watson’s face. “But this bridle,” Holmes began, looking back at Watson. “This is the one you were holding?” Holmes knew it was the same bridle—the warmth of Watson’s body lingered in the leather.

Watson nodded. One quick jerk of his head. Holmes had never seen Watson so ill at ease. It almost made Holmes smile, but he thought it might ruin the effect, so he kept his countenance.

“This bridle seems perfectly ordinary,” Holmes continued. He loosened his grip and let his fingers slip down the straps. Watson’s expression didn’t change, but Holmes saw the muscles in his jaw tense. “My brother has never had the slightest interest in riding, and I can’t imagine him possessing anything out of the ordinary for such a pursuit.”

Watson shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Cowhide leather, brass buckles. Completely commonplace.”

Watson’s eyes shifted to where Holmes’ forefinger slid over the tiny holes near one of the buckles. It was difficult to determine in the dim afternoon light that angled through the stall door, but it appeared that Watson was blushing.

“I see nothing of particular interest, but it captured your attention.” Holmes passed his hand through the lowest dangling loop of the harness and twisted it once around his wrist. “Worn,” he said. “But strong.” Holmes gave a good sharp tug on the strap so that it pulled taut with a snap. Watson turned away, but not before Holmes saw his throat convulse as he swallowed.

_Irresistible._

Holmes reached up to pull the bridle off its hook and took three quick strides toward Watson.

“Holmes,” Watson said, his tone a clear warning, but Holmes took one more step.

“Watson,” Holmes whispered. “Give me your hand.”

Slowly, Watson put out his right hand and then stared as Holmes began to wind the harness around his wrist. As soon as the soft, worn leather encircled his skin, Watson’s eyes fluttered closed. Holmes could hear loud breathing, but he was unable to tell whether it was Watson’s or his own. Holmes had been caught by surprise. Starting this game, his only thought had been to tease Watson, but now he himself was tangled in it as well.

Watson’s eyes were shut, his face turned to one side. Reaching behind Watson’s back, Holmes pushed Watson’s tethered wrist toward his other arm to buckle them together. Watson’s breath on his neck was distracting. His rate of respiration was definitely increased. Perhaps his heartbeat was accelerated as well. Holmes felt he must know. Both of Holmes’ hands were occupied with fastening the strap behind Watson’s back, so he lowered his head to press his lips to Watson’s pulse point. Watson gasped. Clearly the heart rate was heightened. What might increase it further? Feeling his unshaven chin rasp against Watson’s stiff collar, Holmes made sure the straps were secure around Watson’s wrists and then gave a sudden yank. He was rewarded with the feeling on his lips of Watson’s blood pounding under his skin.

Holmes closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling Watson’s scent. Soap. Wool, damp from walking in the rain. A lingering trace of smoke from Holmes’ before-breakfast pipe. Holmes felt his own pulse race, and he opened his mouth to taste Watson’s skin. Watson moaned very softly, and Holmes bit down on Watson’s neck. It wasn’t until he heard Watson’s sharp intake of breath that he realized how severe the bite must have been. Somewhat taken aback at the vehemence of his own reaction, Holmes kissed the bruised skin in apology and then continued up over Watson’s jaw to his chin and finally to his mouth.

Watson started when their lips met, but after a moment Holmes felt Watson’s tongue slide into his mouth, slow and teasing. Caressing. The feeling shocked Holmes. Watson kissed him brazenly. Holmes had never suspected that this kind of sensuality was part of Watson’s nature. He tore himself away to study Watson’s face, the flushed skin, the slightly swollen lips.

“Watson,” he breathed.

Watson’s eyes sprung open, clearly panicked at being recalled to himself. Holmes was sure Watson would have bolted had he not been restrained. Holmes closed his eyes and yanked at the straps clenched in his fist, hoping it would be enough to distract Watson from his alarm. Watson inhaled in a hiss, and his head fell onto Holmes’ shoulder. Holmes let go of the bridle and took Watson’s head in both hands, desperate to reclaim his mouth. Warm, wet. Holmes felt slightly dizzy.

Holmes pulled away and pushed Watson to his knees, reaching down to grab one of the straps hanging free behind Watson’s back. As he stood, Holmes pulled up on the bridle, forcing Watson’s arms up behind him, compelling him to lean forward until his cheek rested on Holmes’ hip. Holmes put a hand to the fastening of his trousers. Watson pulled back, looking up, and his eyes were wide, but he said nothing. Pushing aside his clothing, Holmes didn’t look away from Watson’s face. Then Holmes pulled on the reins in his hand, just the slightest twitch, and Watson closed his eyes, leaning in to wrap his warm, wet mouth around Holmes’ cock. Holmes was sure he would melt from the heat of it. Watson’s teasing mouth, his tongue—more intoxicating than any drug. Holmes tried to restrain himself, but in a moment he was bucking forward, uncontrolled. Hearing Watson groan, Holmes realized he was pulling the leather strap in his hand too far, too brutally. He dropped it and instead grasped Watson’s head. Watson moaned again, and in a moment Holmes was crying out in release, thrusting into that miraculous warmth.

He stood, trembling, for as long as he was able, then collapsed next to where Watson still knelt. Watson’s eyes flew open, and his face was wild, fear and arousal in equal measures making him almost unrecognizable. Holmes’ gaze was drawn to Watson’s mouth, and after giving himself only a moment to catch his breath, he pushed himself up onto his knees and leaned close, but Watson turned his face away. Reaching around Watson’s back, Holmes grabbed the leather straps and pulled, holding Watson still to kiss his neck and then his mouth. This time Watson did not pull away, but Holmes could still feel resistance. Now that he had experienced Watson’s kisses, shamelessly passionate, Holmes would not settle for anything less.

Winding the straps around his fingers to make them tighter, Holmes pushed with his other hand, driving Watson backwards to fall crookedly against the stable wall. His head bumped against the rough wood, and he scowled up at Holmes. Holmes shoved at Watson’s chest again to force him to the floor, allowing himself to be carried along.

“Watson,” Holmes whispered, twisting the bridle in his fist. His arm was trapped under Watson’s body, and the leather was cutting into his skin, but he would not let go. Watson’s eyes fell closed again, and this time when Holmes leaned down for a kiss Watson responded, his lips pliant and warm. How was it possible that Watson had kept this part of himself a secret? Holmes knew he could lose himself in Watson’s mouth, but he pulled away. He had been gripping the back of Watson’s head with his free hand, and now he let it glide down Watson’s body until it rested lightly on the front of his trousers. Watson drew his breath in and held it. Holmes couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Watson, breathless, waiting. Holmes stared, wanting to memorize every nuance of Watson’s arousal, the tension in every muscle of his body.

“Holmes!” Watson pleaded in a whisper.

Holmes released the bridle strap and pulled his arm out from under Watson’s body. Both hands tearing at Watson’s clothes, he pushed past trouser buttons, thick wool, and starched shirt tails until he reached Watson’s bare skin. When Holmes finally touched Watson’s cock, they both gasped. Watson’s body went liquid, all the tension of waiting relieved. A low groan slid out of his throat. Holmes forced himself to move slowly at first, watching Watson’s tongue pass over his lower lip. Slowly Holmes increased the pace of his strokes, and Watson’s body gradually tightened again as his arousal heightened. Watson let out a shuddery moan, and Holmes felt his own cock twitch at the sound. Then Watson began to move, shifting his hips into Holmes’ hand. Watson’s breath came very quickly, and his mouth opened further, almost in a grin. The simple, animal pleasure of his body, clearly written on his face. Watson’s head fell back, exposing the lurid mark Holmes had made on his neck. Holmes tightened his grasp, and then Watson was pushing his hips off the ground, coming, silent at first but then letting out a yell that sounded almost like a shout of laughter.

Holmes looked down at Watson, lying on his side, still panting. A shadow of anxiety threatened at the edge of Holmes’ consciousness, but he refused to recognize it. Instead he settled himself where he could see Watson’s face, watching his expression change gradually from blissful exhaustion to composed neutrality.

“Watson,” Holmes murmured.

Watson opened his eyes, but he wouldn’t look at Holmes, instead fixing his gaze somewhere up in the rafters. Holmes wanted another kiss, to feel that wanton mouth again, but Watson was too tightly wound to allow it, so Holmes attempted to set their disarranged clothing to rights. Then he pressed his forehead into Watson’s neck and carefully reached around Watson’s body to remove the straps from his arms. He threw the bridle to the side and felt Watson’s muscles relax. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Watson sighed. It wasn’t like his usual sighs, full of exasperation and sometimes followed by some kind of thinly veiled reprimand. This time Watson sounded almost contented. Or perhaps he was merely resigned, but Holmes resolved to seize his opportunity and steal that one last kiss he craved. He half expected Watson to pull away or argue, but he surrendered with no hesitation.

The End


End file.
